


Gone

by SarcasticMalaise



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Depression, F/F, Kanaya is missing, no one cares, puking, retrospectively its not obvious Rose is talking, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 12:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6984649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarcasticMalaise/pseuds/SarcasticMalaise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose misses Kanaya, who disappeared under mysterious circumstances. She struggles with alcohol abuse and guilt, et cetera.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone

I will continue to search, forever and ever, for what I am missing.  
Once, I found someone who truly made me happy. She was gentle, and kind, and soothing.  
She disappeared.  
I will search for her until I die.  
No one notices her absence. She had many friends, but they didn't even stop to wonder. What do they think about it? I wonder.  
They don't care enough, I suppose. They weren't really friends then, were they?  
Vriska cared, now that I think about it. But Vriska isn't around anymore. She won a bet with Meenah Peixes. That's death around here.  
I want Kanaya back. I want her to hold me in her arms. I wish she didn't go.  
Sometimes I wonder if she left because of me. The last words we exchanged were not amiable ones. She walked in on me, drinking the last of whatever alcohol I had hidden under the bed.  
If she came back, I'd give up drinking.  
I am determined to find her, though. If she wants me. Maybe she hates me. I hope she doesn't.  
I always think something will be different about the next day, I'll find a clue, the aura of despair around me will somehow thin, but it doesn't. I find myself just as miserable, asking the same questions, belligerently challenging people to fights when I've had too much to drink.  
The only thing that changes is how much alcohol I've had.  
I need to take more decisive action. My life is going nowhere. But I feel a malaise overtake me, and I don't want to get up. I want to continue lying on the bed until Dave comes over and makes me get up. I want to puke my meager breakfast up until I cough up blood. I want to use the sharp end of my bottle to cut myself until the blood stains my sheets. I want to sleep, but I haven't slept in weeks.  
Maybe I'll ask Jane for a favor. She's a fully trained detective now. I always feel pathetic asking others for help, though.  
She disappeared from our apartment. She didn't take anything, and nothing was out of place. I was sleeping with my arms around her, and when I woke up, she was gone.  
I think she must hate me. All those times I was drunk and laughing and she was disappointed in me, which only made me drink more.  
And those times when depression and anger overtook me... Oh, those were awful. What makes it worse is that I enjoyed them. I hurt her, and I didn't care. I was powerful, powerful, and the only feeling I had was a maniacal glee.  
She must hate me, she must. There's so much wrong with me.  
I am screwed up. I don't know why I'm qualified to treat patients when I'm crazy myself. I'm probably ruining their lives, instead of helping.  
I glare at the ceiling. I hate it. It lives its whole life there. It will never be somewhere else. It will slowly rot. Maybe it will be replaced one day, then it'll burn down.  
I can feel a familiar sickness well up in my stomach, but I don't care. I'm too far gone to care.  
I retch over the side of the bed, but I miscalculate and fall over the side. I snarl and kick the bed, but all this does is hurt my foot.  
I'm useless. I can't do anything, I can't affect anything. I can't make a difference, I can't change what I really want to change. Nothing will ever be different, until I die. Then I will no longer exist. I don't believe in heaven or hell.  
I might as well get wasted. Why not? Who cares, anyways?  
No one.  
Who cares if someone cares? They don't have the right to care about me.  
I yank my head ribbon tighter and straighen my hair with my fingertips. I stand up and smooth my wrinkled skirt.  
I decide to hit the bar on third street. It's run by Damara Megido. Any Megido is waist deep in the shadier part of town, so I know there will be some damn good drinks there.  
I walk out the door, locking it as I leave. There will be another day to find her. I will one day, though. I'll find her one day.


End file.
